


The Not-So-Great Escape

by Midnight12reader



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Action/Adventure, Bond Being Bond, Companionable Snark, Explosions, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Minions, Overworked Q
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-18 04:56:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midnight12reader/pseuds/Midnight12reader
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Q wanted to do was head out on his much overdue vacation. As Bond's handler, he really should have known better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Getaway

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:
> 
> As ever, feedback is always appreciated and encouraged. <3

# The Not-So-Great Escape

### The Successful Getaway

"Anytime, Q!", Bond yelled as he raced down an abandoned alleyway. Blood was running down his face in a small stream, his suit miraculously still intact. Never let it be said he didn't know what was important. Sporadic shooting came from behind him as a bullet grazed his shoulder. Cursing, Bond picked up his pace. To think this was supposed to be a routine mission. Routine, his ass. Bond barked out a short ragged laugh. He knew he was being punished. And the continued silence over his com line wasn't doing much to dissuade him of the notion. Shaking his head, he turned the corner, pausing to fire a shot behind him, catching one of his pursuers in the chest. One down. He continued down another alley, this one dirtier than the first, and quickly swung into a bustling open air market. He slipped into the crowd, trying to blend in as well as possible when one was wearing an Armani suit.

A small trinket in a passing booth caught his eye. He deftly palmed it from the table as he passed by, and slipped it into his inner pocket as he walked past. Maybe there was a way to salvage this detour after all, he mused, a small grin touching the corner of his mouth. He began making his way to the far end of the market, picking up his pace at the commotion he heard behind him as several men began pushing their way through the crowd. With barely a pause, his pace quickened to a looping run as he once again demanded a response from his handler, "If you're off making another bloody cup of tea..." he quietly ranted.

Heads around Q branch snapped up and around to stare at the command platform, as Bond's voice echoed over the speakers, and the volume slowly began to recede as Q made his way towards the central terminal. Verbal sparring between 007 and Q was not to be missed, it was enough to liven up any day filled with the tedium of inputting data for the lowly techs at the bottom of the totem poll. And, well, with an opening salvo like that, it certainly wasn't going to be boring. Soft groans of disappointment echoed through out Q branch, as Q deftly switched the com from speaker to a more private line.

"Do keep your head, 007. I rather thought you would be used to these types of situations what with the way you normally go about business." Q nonchalantly remarked, as he took a loud sip from his mug, before setting it down with a not-so quiet clink of glass. He perversely enjoyed the faint hiss that came over the coms. He felt no reason to tell him that he had been monitoring his progress throughout the entire period of silence. Let Bond think what he would. He began to type away at the central station, attempting to ascertain Bond' s current location and the best evac method. After a short , barely discernible pause, "Oh, there you are. I see you. And no where near where you should be...although I don't know why I'm surprised." Q stated dryly.

"I know where I am, Q!" Bond gruffly replied. "Where have _you_ been?!" he asked pointedly. Quick but controlled breathing came through the com line. Along with an annoyed huff at the lack of an immediate response from his so-called handler. It made the act of dumping Q's tea into the rubbish bin during his last visit to Q branch all the more satisfying to recall. The nerve of Q, not to mention the balls, trying to dock his pay. It's not like they couldn't make another.

"Irritable, are we?" Q quipped. "That's what happens when you blow up the getaway car yet again, 007. You end up having to do a bit of light running." A scoff from Bond threaded through the speaker of Q's ear piece.

"I will never understand your fascination with explosives, 007. There are so many less flashy, and more effective ways to go about things, not to mention less destructive. To think you could have been at your destination already, if you had used the equipment I gave you as intended, instead of blowing it up.", Q dryly remarked.

Bond growled. Q then had the cheek to add, "...And this time I really am going to take it out of your pay, 007. I don't care if I have to bloody booby trap the tin with a taser. This is getting ridiculous." Q growled back.

Bond could only grunt in reply as he executed a quick turn, only to slam into the side of fruit truck as it barreled by. However, the glare he directed at the camera as he ran past spoke volumes. Forget about the tea, he snarled to himself, he was going after that pretentious mug of his next, and Q could forget about his damn 'present' as well. He cut through a small shop, slipping on a pair of glasses he snagged out of a fellow customer's pocket. He slide through the small crowd as he made his way towards the back and out the door into yet another alley. 

"Are you done with your fashion routine yet, 007?" Q's dulcet tones had turned slightly mocking. "Or should I wait while you pick out an entirely new wardrobe?" Bond could practically hear Q's eyebrow arching up mockingly.

"Take your next right. No! I said, right!" Q suddenly directed. He watched as Bond pivoted and threw himself to the right, narrowly avoiding being clipped by a bullet as it whizzed past. "It seems your friends have caught up to you." Q dryly reported. 

"Really Q, I never would have guessed.", came Bond's sarcastic reply as his breath puffed out over the small speaker. He heard Q's answering haughty sniff clearly over the crystal clear com line.

"I do sometimes amaze even myself." Q drawled. Bond could only roll his eyes.

"I saw that." Q coolly stated. Bond shot a look at the nearest camera.

After he had successfully corrected course, Q sat back with his now nuke-warm cup of Earl Grey. There was no reason to crush Bond's little moment of victory by informing him of the spare tins that were always kept on hand by his minions, or, ahem, interns in order to placate him after they messed up in some spectacular fashion. He took a small sip as he continued to guide Bond through the narrow streets one turn at a time. "Left." 

"Right." How tediously mind numbing, Q thought. His mind was already starting to wander, as his eye drifted to the clock. Soon, he thought, with a quick grin, before his professional mask once again dropped over his features. Bond would soon by someone else's problem for a while, once he finally got to the ruddy extraction point of course. He almost had the heart to pity the poor fellow who would have to put up with Bond's complaining over his less than stellar accommodations, he thought with thrill of sadistic glee. Bond really should have known better than to blow up another one of his department's modified cars. Q was fully prepared to take this latest affront out of his hide, literally if necessary.

"Left into and through the alley, 007. You're almost there." Q deftly instructed. "Right."

"No, your other right. Do we have to go back to primary school, 007?" Q could only sigh as Bond made another hair tight turn. He sat up slightly,"In about ten seconds, there will be a shooter waiting to ambush you in an alley to the left. In three...two..."

Bond pivoted in what was quickly becoming a rather trademark move, and swung his weapon up and squeezed off two shots in quick succession. After a quick double tap to the chest of his would be assassin, he was again on his way. Securing the satchel slung over his chest, and tucking the Walter squarely away back in it's holster, he efficiently shot his cuffs and straightened his somehow spotless suit jacket. He turned into the dock's entrance, and slipped under the cheap security bar. God, he loved this country, he thought in momentary wonderment. Swinging under the guard rail and landing with a barely noticeable wince on a small motorboat, he quickly revved the engine to life.

With a quick jerk of the wheel and a push of the throttle, he set out into the bay. "Which one, Q?" he asked as his roared past a few sailboats closer to shore and out to deeper water.

"The Siesta Mona, 007. Now get on the bloody boat, and try to avoid blowing it up." Q directed, "I'm not going to be here to be your glorified G.P.S. if you do. Contrary to popular belief, you are not my only responsibility. At least, by some miracle, you managed to keep some of your equipment. But make no mistake Bond, we will be talking about your need to continuously destroy my tech at great length in the near future." _Click._

Bond glanced at the ship he was to board. He had to hand it to Q. He really knew how to kick a man when he was down. That damn mug might have to remain intact after all, at least until Q's latest snit fit was over. He heard the com line click on again, "007? Do you require anything further before you depart? Do you require medical attention?.…007?" Oh, lovely, he got passed to a minion. _Click._

"007?" Bloody temperamental Double-O's, the minion sighed. _Click._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Q flicked the ear piece onto his desk, snagged a small mountain of paperwork, and promptly dropped it on R's desk. "These will be your responsibility while I'm gone. Fill them out, scan them, and file them. Have the minions help if needed." He motioned to a much larger collection of files. "Place those in my office. I'll deal with them when I get back." 

He glanced around his domain. Everything seemed to be in order. Lovely. "Bond is in transit, and should return to be debriefed in a few days. If he actually stays on the ship for longer than a day, I'd be surprised." He handed her the debriefing forms, and with a brief glance as if to say 'good luck', he turned and made for the door.

With a tired, yet accomplished sigh, he made his way to the threshold. Only to turn back and remark to the room at large, "This is my first vacation in five years."

"Yes, sir" R archly replied. 

"Don't call me unless the country is on the verge of collapse, the world is ending, or a 00 does something truly stupid that would result in either." And with a mumbled comment on 007's stupidity in comparison to his compatriots, and his ability to cock any mission up as much as possible, he was gone.

"So…who's started the office pool on how long it will be before said phone call?" R softly called out to the room at large. A minion slowly raises his hand a few cubicles over. "Put me down for 24 hours." The hand slowly lowers, only to cover a quick grin. 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 

Q walked rather quickly out of M16 for a man who had a week of freedom on the books. However, nobody would call him an idiot. And if there was one thing he could count on, it was Bond's ability to act like an idiot. He gave himself two, maybe three days, possibly four if 007 was injured, before Bond got bored and he got called back to mitigate the damage. Everything else he needed to be kept abreast of could be sent to his personal tablet, so with luck he might still get a few days of downtime, never mind that he had put in for a full week.

He was slightly apprehensive about leaving R in charge for the first time, but it wasn't like M, Tanner, or Eve wouldn't be able to track him down if needed, he assured himself. And with those doubts firmly assuaged, he determinedly picked up his pace. There was a train waiting for him at the station, and damned if he was going to miss it on account of Bond on his histrionics. 

Although the rumor regarding his rampant phobia was largely cultivated by Q himself, he still felt that the ground was much friendlier than the air. Who was he to care that his preferences got misconstrued so? It never hurt to be underestimated. It often came in handy later down the line. When it came down to it, Q was sometimes too smart for his own good. Not to mention that too many airplane crashes have been made to look like accidents. He should know really, he planned more than a few of those 'accidents' himself. It's amazing how much can go wrong in a pressurized tin can flying miles above the ground.

Pushing such thoughts aside, he gladly settled into his plush seat and pulled out his tablet. He had a few side projects that he had been meaning to work on in his spare time. A few would even make Bond sit up and beg, he thought with a smirk.


	2. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q thought he would have at least a few Bond-free days. He should have learned by now not to underestimate Bond's ability to get into trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. This was supposed to be a one-shot, but this story seems to have taken on a life of it's own. As always, feedback is appreciated. <3

# The Not-So-Great Escape

### The Return

Q was abruptly jolted out of a rather complex set of coding, by a rather insistent ringing sound coming from his luggage. He could only sigh as he gazed down at the state of his latest project. He set aside his tablet, filled with the schematics for something truly explosive for 004's next mission. It was sure to make Bond's cold heart beat with envy, Q gleefully imagined. Q couldn't deny that that image alone, Bond's poker face broken by a thinly veiled hint of affront, the lines on his forehead deepening as he quietly fumed from his usual corner in Q branch, made the work well worth the extra personal hours. He could dream on as much as he liked, after this latest cock up he would be lucky to get something as sophisticated as a click-y pen. 

It was with an irritated sigh at the unwanted disruption, that he reached into his bag to retrieve the ringing device. He had to admit that if it wasn't for a signed contract and not-so-latent, and rather thinly-hidden control issues, he would have turned the damn thing off as soon as he made the train.

"If he blew up the boat, I don't want to hear about it." He barked into the phone. "It's only been 2 hours. 2 bloody hours!" He couldn't deny the whining tone that had just come from his mouth. He sucked in a deep, steadying breath.

He was well on his way to working up a full head of steam. He had had enough, damn it! Even Q himself would admit that while he usually had no trouble working without even a break to sleep, let alone eat, he was nearing the end of his metaphorical rope.

After what came to be known as Operation Skyfall, he had been working almost non-stop in order to reconfigure their entire system, so as to avoid any potential repeat incidents in the future. Not to mention handling not only 007's missions, but the other Double-Os high profile missions as well. Plus, with the combining of R&D and Tech Support into Q branch, he had been constantly drowned by stacks of redundant paperwork and patents pending, and the politic intrigues that followed being a department head. 

It was the 3 P's that formed the basis of his administrative hell. And he had finally been given leave of it for a few days. Days, mind you, not 2 measly hours. He was almost ready to start banging his head against the nearest hard surface. See how far they got, with a brain addled Quartermaster, he spitefully thought. "What has he done now?" he inquired tiredly. 

"Q." And all the air he had sucked in quietly whooshed out in a muted sigh.

Q could almost feel M's voice creeping down the phone line as it came through the small speaker. It seems like his vacation dreams were destined to wither and die before his eyes.

He sucked in a quick fortifying breath, before tonelessly replying in his more characteristic manner, "Yes, M?"

He could only imagine what Bond had done now, or that this could in fact be about anything _but_ Bond. He closed his eyes as he anticipated the migraine that was coming his way. 

"Why are you on a train when I am staring at a report that lists Bond's status as, and I quote, 'missing, but statistically alive'?" Oh, lovely, Q dryly remarked to himself. Why isn't he surprised, again? And wasn't it great that someone in Q branch had decided to grow a sense of humor now, of all times.

"So, we have an agent missing where he shouldn't be according to our political allies" M relentlessly continued, "and we are unaware as to whether he is going to turn up in a way that is going to cause us embarrassment. Or, Lord help us, in the hands of the enemy and create a political nightmare." he barked down the line.

He paused, and his tone once again smoothed out to it's more characteristic dispassionate and level tones, "Your vacation is officially over, Q. Get off on the next stop; Tanner should have a car waiting for you there already. I'll expect a report to be ready upon your arrival back at headquarters." he directed. 

His tone turned wry, "I hope you enjoyed your time away. I can't see it happening again for quite some time." The quiet but decisive click of the call ending echoed down the line.

It sounded an awful lot like Bond laughing at him, Q mused. Q could only massage the bridge of his nose, and curse the day he agreed to be Bond's primary handler. It was with a groan that he began to pack up, thankfully, or not, as the case may be, the next stop was coming up in only a few minutes. He really should have foisted this particular duty off on R. The ulcer he was getting over the antics of one lone agent was truly ridiculous.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX 

"What's his status?" M asked as he strode into Q Branch and up to a newly returned Q.

"Alive. Barely. Or at least according to his tracker.", the words were bitten out in his posh accent, hanging heavily in the air between them. Even speech required more attention than he wanted to give at the moment. Bond was being surprisingly elusive this time, it was almost enough the enlarge the small germ of worry that had popped into being at the back of his mind when he had been told that Bond was missing yet again. He shoved it aside, and continued to focus his concentration on the task at hand. Worrying certainly wouldn't help Bond out of his current predicament.

"We lost contact two hours ago. His tracker is functional, but intermittent at best.", he calmly reported as his fingers continued to fly over the keys, "Apparently, he never made contact with the ship's Captain." He glanced back quickly at M, only to quickly return his attention to the screens before him. 

"We can only assume he ran into difficulty or unexpectedly decided to change course. Probably got distracted by a yacht where some half naked heiress just happened to be sunbathing and stopped in for a 'chat'." Q quipped. And if he had, Q thought darkly, he better not make it down to Q branch for a least a month. It would take that long for Q to fight back the urge to want to shoot or possibly strangle him on sight.

Q could only glare harder at the screen, as Bond refused to materialize on cue. He continued to vainly search for 007's presence among CCTV footage. The local chatter was quiet for the moment, but that could be an indication of something else entirely. The region had been far from stable to begin with, and with all of Bond's antics, there should have been an uptick in chatter, not this steady hum. Something else was going on, something far from good if Bond's luck was any indication.

Wouldn't be considerate enough to have a routine mission for once, and let a well-deserving handler of his take a ruddy vacation, Q thought as he viciously stroked the keys beneath his fingers. No, let's just make him come back and play hide and bloody seek. As Q grumbled quietly to himself, he motioned for a minion to open up another console and directed him to start running facial recognition software on the men surrounding Bond during his departure from the dock. Another minion was already monitoring potential exits out of the area. With luck, they might just get a hit and gain some insight into Bond's latest cock up. 

Q couldn't help but think that if Bond had been outfitted with the new sub-dermal tracker he had worked so hard to perfect, they wouldn't even be in this mess. He'd already be at his destination, and have a cup of Earl Grey at his side to boot. He knew Bond's pension for ditching medical was going to catch up to him. If only it had been more conveniently timed, and less of Q's problem, he mused.

He would have taken great pleasure in pointing this out to Bond at the moment. One more 'I told you so' would have placed them in a ruddy tie, too. Don't think he isn't completely aware of the scoreboard that his minions keep track of and of the resultant office pool. He was close to winning this month's bloody round too. Under an alias from Accounting, of course, although he really doubted if that rouse fooled anyone but the lowest of interns. Just like Bond to foil another one of his small pleasures. 

"And the mission?" M prompted, already knowing the answer, but wishing for confirmation. 

"Successful. By the skin of his ruddy teeth. It was finished for all intent and purposes before I left. He had made it to the extraction point and was in sight of his transport home." Q clipped out. 

"I've found him, sir" a middle aged minion interrupted to report, motioning to the console he had been working on directly to Q's left. 

He didn't quite hide the sigh of relief as Q's expression went from tense and icy to merely irritated, with a barely perceptible hint of relief. Q turned and approached the adjacent console. He pulled up the footage showing Bond being intercepted and surrounded on the merchant ship's deck, just as he had boarded the side. He could only watch as Bond was consequently knocked unconscious with a rather hard looking piece of wood. The footage continued to play out, grainy and only distinct enough to make out three figures as they hauled Bond's limp body back over the side and into another, smaller vessel.

"Where is this footage coming from?" Q demanded, as he strained to make out details in the grainy footage. He strode over to his own computer. "Transfer that footage to the main screen." He waited...and waited."Oh, never mind." he snapped.

Losing patience, Q remotely accessed the console and transferred the image himself. Now that he had a lead to work from, he was impatient to get the Double-O back here where he belonged, clogging up the place and making his life difficult in more manageable ways.

"It came from a cruise ship server. Apparently a pair of tourists got quite a show when they decided to video tape their entrance into port. Had to upload it straight away for all the grandkids at home to see. It's on the internet now. I'm sure they will be small town celebrities upon their return." R dryly remarked.

She quickly took over, nudging the minion out of the chair, and shooing the minion away from the console with a flip of her hand before Q had him demoted from 'minion' to 'pet' in his irritability. The minion only threw a quick glance filled with gratitude at R, before rushing back to his own station, away from the line of fire. R barely noticed, already transferring the data to her own terminal for further analysis.

"The internet." Q remarked coldly.

"Yes, sir." Verified R quietly as she closed down the console and returned to her station. 

"Only Bond." He shook his head almost fondly. 

"Well, what are you waiting for? Take it off the internet and track it to its source. We don't need a 00's picture all over the internet." Q snapped as he pulled up the complete footage.

It picked up where it left off, only to show Bond's form being bound to the side of the vessel as it moved away from the ship, and made for a nearby... "Is that a bloody yacht?" Q asked tensely.

He watched as a tall red headed woman, with lithe, graceful movements, wandered out onto the yacht's deck, shielding her eyes against the sun. As he observed her scantily clad form, his fingers flexed forcefully while they hovered over the keyboard.

Only the sound of clicking keys picking up tempo answered him.


	3. Unexpected Worries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the chapter title suggests: Q seethes, worries, and, at the moment, generally wants to bring Bond home just to get the chance to crack him alongside the head with a cricket bat.

# The Not-So-Great Escape 

### Unexpected Worries

Q only gave himself a moment to seethe at the sheer injustice of it all. He slowly drew in a deep breath, exhaling quietly and flexing his hands one more time before laying them oh-so gently upon his station. He reached up with one hand and deftly pushed his glasses back up into place with a steady, if still slightly white, fingertip. 

"Well, it seems that Bond has decided to upgrade his transport arrangements." He stated, tonelessly, once again able to project the professionalism he had come to be known for since his start in Q branch five long years ago. 

It was the type of professional demeanor that Bond loved to see wobble and crack around the edges when he was present, constantly poking and prodding. Like a ruddy boy pulling his secret sweetheart's pig tales, Q snorted to himself, but then again secret wasn't exactly apt in this regard. The agent's interest had been far from subtle. A blunt instrument, indeed, Q scoffed to himself. One would think that with a reputation like Bond's, a little more subtlety would be evident.

However, although Bond's interest was in some ways flattering and his behaviors occasionally annoyingly cute, or how rewarding Q sometimes found the situation...well, Q wasn't in any way interested in being labeled Bond's latest conquest in a long line. There were enough around the building as it was. Plus, it seemed he was rather high maintenance even without romantic entanglements, he mused, somewhat snidely.

How typical, and oh, how galling, of the Double-O to put him in this situation. He apparently couldn't even handle a brief stay on a regular old merchant vessel. Too plebeian, no doubt. Not enough flair. The damn primadonna. 

"Pity." Q mumbled quietly to himself, lost in thought, picturing Bond's face at being forced to sleep on a cot instead of a ruddy down mattress. 

It had seemed fitting enough when he had made the arrangements; one old rust bucket to go with another. Plus, it had been gratifying to think of Bond having to suffer after he had wasted all of the effort Q had went through to get him a decent automobile for this mission, modifications and all. Bond truly had no idea how many hours and how much of the budget had gone into this one project. Or if he did, he didn't care. Well, Q had thought, I will just have to _make_ him care. 

He would have thought with the way Bond had lighten up at it's presentation and with the way his hand had almost petted it's finish, that it would have lasted longer in the field. Q wouldn't put it past Bond to have gotten kidnapped on purpose, just to avoid his just desserts. Bond would do it just to spite him if nothing else. Never mind that there had been four men to his one, he had seen Bond take on worse odds and come out on top.

"Track the boat. I want to know where it is, who's on board, and where it's going." Q coolly directed, speaking to the room at large.

Without looking over his shoulder to check that his orders were being followed, after all he trusted the increased bustling behind him was due to such and not a mass mutiny, Q back tracked to the earlier footage of Bond's escape. Something had to have been missed, something must have been overlooked. It was the only logical explanation.

And as he rewound the footage, he could have kicked himself for not seeing it the first time round. He should have been paying more attention, if Bond…well, thinking like that wouldn't help him be much assistance. He shook his head deftly, more angry with himself than he would care to admit, and if there was a hint of fear thrown in as well, he would deny, deny, deny. He fast forwarded and zoomed in for a better angle on the tall figure, and then with a hard tap of a key, froze the image for further analysis, and sent a copy of it to R. 

"Check the image I sent you against the footage from the ship. I want to know if he was on board." he directed, with a quick glance thrown at R's station to catch her eye. R nodded deftly, brown hair falling to obscure her eyes as they returned to her screen. 

No point, really, in examining 'what if' scenarios or getting ahead of oneself, he told himself firmly. While Bond had been following his directions, or at least his bumbling attempt to, someone had been following Bond.

Easy to overlook, the man was average in almost every way, average enough that it could only be deliberate. Medium height, medium build, brown eyes set in an indistinct face covered by a fringe of brown hair, he would be hard pressed to picked out of a line up, Q mused. And a bit less of a fashionista than another he could name. 

Whereas as Bond stood out in his traditionally close cut tailored suit, Q could only roll his eyes at the man's sense of fashion in the middle of a firefight, the man behind him blended easily in with the crowd. Q inputted his face into the facial recognition software, hoping to get a hit off the database. He scanned back to when he first picked up 007's trail.

He must have picked up Bond's trail after the market, Q devised, as he searched in vain for the man in the bustling marketplace. He hacked into the camera footage of the store Bond had detoured through. And…there. A man in a tan cloth jacket could be seen following Bond's trail, encasing muscular arms and showing off the bulge made by the weapon holster under his arm. 

"A truly unpleasant individual, no doubt." Q mumbled quietly to himself, a sense of inexplicable trepidation running all the way from the back of his neck and down across the vertebrae of his spine. 

His head swiveled back and forth between monitors, before darting to one of the screens as it flashed, a match between the mysteries individual and an old flagged file popping up under the blinking notification. 

"Well, look who we have here." he quietly muttered. A passing minion glanced at the screen as he passed, before deftly moving to his station and quietly picking up the phone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. A rather short chapter, I know, but I've been knocking this chapter around for a while, trying to beat it into shape. And I was afraid if I batted at it anymore, it was just going to disintegrate...so, here you go. Hope enjoyed it. As ever, feel free to review and share your thoughts. <3


	4. Captors and Cliches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond would be insulted, if the whole thing wasn't so pathetic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A.N. Feedback, as always, is welcomed and appreciated. <3

# The Not-So-Great Escape

### Captors and Cliches

Bond woke to a dull throbbing reverberating through his skull. Great, he thought, another concussion to add to the list. Remembering, he could guess that it stemmed from the nice sized knot that he could feel forming on the back of his head. Why they always had to go for the back of the head was beyond him. Although effective, it was also hard on the merchandise. As he raised his hand to check the damage, he wiped ineffectively at the blood dripping into his eyes from the deep cut through his left eyebrow, with a deep grimace. That was going to leave a scar. 

He wasn't surprised by the sound of clinking chains that reached his ears as he lifted his hand. Oddly resigned, he looked down to see his wrists encompassed by a set of old fashioned metal manacles. The manacles appeared to be connected by, oh, Lord save him from the cliché. He couldn't hold back the sneer. Braided chains drooped down between his legs and snaked behind him, rattling with every movement. Even though it sent a sharp jolt of pain through his head, Bond couldn't avoid rolling his eyes at the sense of melodrama displayed by his captors.

As he followed the length of the chains with pain sharpened eyes, he saw that they were connected to a rusted loop built into the stone wall he had pushed his cold, numb body up to sit against.

Wonderful, he thought drolly, an antique. As he attempted to find a weakness in the manacles hold, he grimaced slightly at the thought of what all this was doing to his suit, and slightly less so for the rough bite of the metal as it ground against his wrists.

Handcuffs and ropes were so much more elegant, he sighed, and so much more easily dealt with. As he turned his head to eye the rusted loop of metal protruding from the wall, he couldn't contain a quiet hiss through tightly clenched teeth as his head rolled against the rough stone, aggravating his head and sending bolts of pain radiating through his neck and skull.

Q wasn't going to be pleased, was oddly Bond's first clear thought as his situation became more apparent. And when you combine the loss of his plans, Bond's own dilemma, on top of the ire the man already felt at the loss of his latest toys, well, the boffin was going to be apoplectic.

If Bond's situation wasn't as pressing, he would take the time to thoroughly enjoy the mental image of Q in a strop. And Q thought he was so clever, sneaking away before he made it back. As if he wouldn't notice the tech's absence during his now habitual end of mission pass through Q branch. It was too easy to rile up the tech, and too much fun. He couldn't recall when exactly he began to hunt out the boffin at the end of missions, but Q had yet to disappoint him-on a mission or otherwise. He couldn't suppress the rush of affection and not a small amount of heat that rose at the thought. Honestly, Q should have known better than to try and sneak away. Away from of all people. Bond chuckled. It wasn't like Q to be so slow. Like Bond would truly have stayed put as ordered, and not take the opportunity to return ahead of schedule and to a friendlier climate.

A bloody merchant vessel, honestly, Q, Bond thought with fond exasperation.

Q might think him completely unaware of his plans outside of the office and the mission at hand, but Bond was well aware of what his Quartermaster got up to while he was away. Just like he was aware that that bloody ship was meant to play the role of babysitter and keep him occupied while Q made a hasty retreat from headquarters.

As if Q would get very far without some type of shadow, likely him. Or that the minions could keep a secret from a determined, well trained Double-O. A smirk briefly flittered across Bond's face, before it returned to its characteristic blankness. Bond had had a few, well, more than a few, days of leave saved up, and he had been picturing Q's face at his unannounced presence on his little jaunt when he had been subsequently surrounded.

As his thoughts had once again drifted to a certain maddening handler, Bond had arisen and wound the course chains around his forearms. Bracing himself against the wall with his left foot, he attempted to pull and tug the manacles loose from the rusted loop of metal. After one last ineffective heave, Bond resigned himself to waiting for his captor's arrival. While the metal seemed brittle, the wall mounted connection refused to budge. Apparently although antiques, they were more than effective.

He sat and once again contemplated his dismal surroundings. It had all the makings of a Hollywood B-movie scene. The damp, exposed cellar, with bare exposed brick floors and walls, and a large wooden door that was no doubt latched with the perquisite steel padlock to match the lovely manacles. The cavernous room was empty save for a small little stool set against the far wall, and a deep puddle of water that had gathered in the right exposed corner of the room. 

Bond sharply glanced away as the sun beamed into the room from the rather large hole in the ceiling only to hit the collected water, and catch him across the eyes. As he turned his head away, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps coming down the outside corridor. 

With nowhere to hide and the inability and disinclination to do so anyway, Bond deftly returned to the position he had came to in, and quickly regulated his breathing and demeanor to feign his previous state of unconsciousness. He forced his tense body to go limp as the padlock was loudly removed and two sets of footsteps entered the room.

He listened intently as one man moved to approach his still form, and the other, heavier set of footsteps, stopped in the center of the room.

"So, this is a Double-O?" the man asked his companion, inching closer to the downed agent with a sneer laced heavily with bravado.

"Keep your distance, you fool." barked the other man, voice deep and commanding. 

"He doesn't look that dangerous." a higher, younger voice remarked. 

"And you are not getting paid to look, let alone think. Now drop the damn tray and let's get the hell out of here." A muffled thump came from the vicinity of the stool, along with the clink of glass.

"I mean, look, he is all tied up." The young voice took on a slightly more sadistic and gleeful tone as the footsteps inched closer.

Bond braced himself minutely, just in time to take a kick to the side. Bond didn't have to fake the low moan that escaped him.

"Antonio, do not be stupid!" the older man snapped, stepping forward.

When the idiot maneuvered closer to his downed figure to kick him again, Bond forcefully rolled into the man's legs, catching the man off balance and sending him crashing to the ground beside him. He quickly pinned the younger man to the floor. Bond deftly snagged the gun out of the back of the man's pants as he held him against the ground with a strong forearm.

The older man opened his mouth to call out, only to gargle as blood gushed from his throat through a bullet hole. 

As the rather fat man fell to the ground with another bullet centered between his eyes, Bond quickly brought the butt of the gun down onto the younger man's head, smashing it against his forehead as he attempted to twist out of Bond's hold. Just as he thought...highly effective and hard on the merchandise. The man sagged against the floor, out like a light.

Bond stood gracefully, deftly straightened his lapels, shot his cuff links, and brushed down his trousers out of ingrained muscle memory. He hefted the gun, and with a small shrug of his shoulders, turned to the side and shot down at the chain of the manacles. He could only snort as the chain easily broke.

He didn't know if he should be more offended by the blatant clichés, ineffectual henchmen included, or by the fact that his captors had been cheap enough to buy reproductions instead of original steel.

As he turned to walk away, he paused a moment, only to turn and swiftly kick the prone form at his feet. The small groan that issued forth brought a thin vindictive smile to the corner of the Double-O's mouth as he made his way silently through the door, already contemplating how he was going to make all this up to Q.

After all, he wouldn't want to make it home only to be killed by his favorite handler, he thought with a smirk, as he made his way soundlessly down the dank corridor.


	5. Frustrations and Headaches Abound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q has a headache, and he isn't afraid to spread it around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to those who have taken the time to comment on this story. Your kind words meant more to me than you could know.

# The Not-So-Great Escape

### Frustrations and Headaches Abound

Q marched back into Q Branch, his hand rubbing at his forehead for a moment, before returning quickly to his side. Mustn't give the minions any ideas, he thought snidely. He didn't want to have a repeat of last year. 

The jockeying for position in Q Branch was legendary to those in the know, and the competition between its agents even more so. Q had been lucky enough to combat the perceived weakness of his youth, bloody old fashioned wankers. He wasn't about to have any rumors starting concerning his ‘delicate’ constitution. Especially not over another bloody Bond induced headache.

And while he may be exempt from such competitions and machinations now that he had M firmly in his corner and an official appointment on the books, rumors would only cause trouble in the long run. Decreased efficiency. Pointless attempts at mutiny. And it was so hard to get his minions trained properly. He didn’t want to have to start from scratch. It was all so bloody tiresome.

As he made his way across the polished floor, he scanned the cavernous room for R’s distinct head of hair. M had been far from thrilled by his update or lack of it. There wasn't much new to report, which was galling and worrying all at the same time.

They had thought that they had taken care of this particular problem, and to find out that it had not only not been resolved but that it had grown, had given everyone in the upper circles a jolt and a headache they were happy to share.

Now it was Q’s job to get it all straightened away. Like a ruddy janitor, he thought in disgust. His lips pursed as he contemplated the clean up job in front of him.

He also couldn't help but think smugly, a small smirk flashing across his face, that if Bond had been placed in charge of that particular mission, they wouldn't be in this mess. But, no, M had thought it a grand idea that he accompany Bond overseas to take care of a ring of small cyber terrorists that had been plaguing their less fortunate cousins in the CIA. He had told them as well, that his minions where not fully recovered enough nor experienced enough to handle such a mission without his direct guidance. But what does he know, he was apparently nothing more than a highly paid janitor after all.

Serves them right, he scowled, they should have known nothing would go right when they decided to put him on a bloody plane instead of leaving him be in his domain. If he had been here, they might not even be in this mess. 

Minions just weren't meant to go unsupervised for that long, even with someone as competent as R in charge. Although how competent she really was, was now being brought into question. R was R, but there was a reason she was passed over for Q. He had kept her on, in part due to her competency thus far and in part to her familiarity with the older crowd and her willingness to bend to the inevitability of change. 

And maybe a change is what was needed in this case, Q thought with a frown, or a bloody vacation. It was no wonder that his minions were as run down as he was in their own way. He was proud of the fact that his employees were more than willing to go above and beyond for Queen and Country, long hours and lost weekends included, but that was no excuse for shoddy workmanship and blatant mistakes.

Q finally spotted her coming through an archway recessed into the far corner, striding out of the armory as the door sealed behind her. He waved her over with a sharp slash of the hand held over his head. 

Without looking to see if she would follow, he stepped up to his central desk and began accessing relevant files. It was time to ferret out where the hell Bond ended up. This was becoming truly ridiculous. 

How hard could it possibly be to find a Double-O with a penchant for blowing shit up? He scoffed to himself. Either he was slipping or he needed time away from the madness of MI6 more than he had thought.

“Re-familiarize yourself with the Farmington Operation.” he ordered, as R came up behind him, eyes not leaving the lightly lit screen.

A smart minion placed a steaming cup of Earl Grey at his elbow before quietly disappearing. Q deftly snagged the cup as he continued to type one handed.

“And I expect a report in twenty minutes on how you cocked it up.” Q continued, voice expressionless. The cup was set down with an audible click, the soft sound echoing in the space between them.

R blanched. “Sir?” 

“Do I need to repeat myself?” he asked, dangerously soft, head still bent.

R gulped. “No, sir.” she stated quietly, voice subdued. 

The minions ringing the small platform went silent as the small drama unfolded, eyes averting as R slid past, hands shaking faintly as they clutched at the small clipboard she carried. 

Small whispers broke out as R returned quietly to her station. Malicious gossip began to spread instantly. R was out of favor, at the moment at least, and some had loved to see her fall. As the sound of typing slowly petered out, to be replaced by pointed glances, Q turned his head sharply to the side.

“As for the rest of you,” he began coldly, his voice carrying easily in the large room, “If I don’t have Bond’s location within the hour, I’ll be rotating you out to work on the re-wiring efforts and volunteering your services to tech support.” 

The decades of accumulated filth and the rumors of rat infested corridors was enough to refocus the masses. Not to mention the prospect of serving in the unique hell of tech support-it was were techies went to die or worse-be phased out. There were only so many times you could order an agent to turn something off and on again, before you were begging a passing Double-O to put a bullet in your head. 

The small sea of heads turned back to their consoles so quickly that Q was surprised that no one experienced whiplash. With a smug gaze and a grimly determined expression, he turned and pulled up the security footage of Q Branch accumulated and archived during Operation Farmington. Something wasn't right; he thought as his mind raced, he could feel it. 

As the footage began to run on the nearest monitor, Q began running programs, and inputting new sets of code. If something or someone was or had been acting outside of their normal parameters, he would soon know about it. Nothing got past him for long, not here at least.

The yacht itself had been a dead end, mere transport and a hired Captain paid to look the other way. It was all too pedestrian, which was what made this whole cock up so embarrassing. Apparently they had become accustomed to the grand super villain model of doing things. 

It was so much easier when the culprits were obliging enough to lead you to their super secret hideout, Q mused sarcastically, but in this case, he thought, they were just going to have to keep gathering intelligence and wait for Bond to make his usual flashy reappearance. The simplicity of the kidnapping was almost brilliant in its own way, Q mused wryly, the lack of technology in the area coupled with the ties they must have had to the area had certainly worked in their favor.

Bond’s ass was getting a new tracker whether he liked it or not, Medical be damned. Q would do the honors himself once Bond was back if he had to. Best to do it now, before Bond got senile and started wandering off even more than usual. As it was, all they could do now was wait for some sign of movement from the missing agent. Based on past history, it shouldn't be long now.

Q had to grudgingly admit that his agent’s penchant for explosions and pyromania occasionally came in handy. More so, when his tech wasn't involved and subsequently destroyed costing his department thousands if not millions of dollar, but I guess you can’t have everything, Q supposed. He would just have to find a way for Bond to start working his debt off, he thought with a small devious grin.

Q pushed a hand under his glasses, rubbing at his eyes with his fingertips. He was tired, God, was he tired. His face was pale and his fingers had started to shake from the overdose of caffeine over an hour ago. 

Bond was going to kill him, he thought somewhat hysterically. And he wasn't even going to need a bloody gun to do it. Q let out a quiet snort of disgust, pinching the bridge of his nose. He paused to re-situate his glasses, before leaning down to snag his headset. As he moved to fit it into place, an image on the far screen caught his eye. He stilled, freezing in place, mouth opening slightly in muted shock. 

He stared at the image provided by the facial recognition software as it flashed across the far screen.

“Sir?” a minion asked quietly for his attention, as he stood just below the dais, wringing his hands. Q merely continued to stare. The bloody cheek, he thought numbly, mind going momentarily blank. 

The _bloody_ cheek. He began to silently fume, his eyes still caught on the still image, taking on a sharp glint. He finally flung the headset down onto his desk with a flick of his wrist.

“Q?” the minion asked again, voice beginning to waver slightly. He took a small step closer to the raised platform.

“We've found Bond, sir.” He reported quietly, tone tentative.

“I can see that.” Q remarked sharply, tonelessly, before saying, “I want to _talk_ to him.” voice turning vaguely ominous, with a dash of pure menace thrown in. The minion flinched. 

The expression that crossed Q’s face as he turned back to his console to patch through a call, had the minion quietly backing away, before turning and scurrying back to his station. He didn't want to be in the Double-O's position at the moment. 

He chanced another look at the footage now streaming live across the screen.

No, indeed. God help 007, he thought, because no one else will. And the fallout was going to be magnificent to behold, he thought with gleeful relish, as he chanced one last look at Q. He could hardly wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of a transition chapter, I have to admit. Next update title: Reunion Part 1
> 
> As always, reviews and comments are treasured and appreciated. <3


	6. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q just really, really needs a vacation.

# The Not-So-Great Escape

### Reunion 

Q walked through the door of his modest flat with a sigh. He turned on the lights with a weary flick of his wrist, making a mental note to install something more sophisticated when he got the chance. Along with everything else he needed to do, he thought with a sigh...including the dishes.

He gingerly made his way slowly around the mountain of junk mail that had been shoved through his mail slot to sit abandoned in an ever growing pile in his entry way. He glanced down as he walked, noting that MI6 must have changed his alias again. Good to know. God, he needed to catch on the day to day minutia. It was ridiculous that he could manage the life of twelve Double-Os and a host of minions, but his own life was left in a constant state of shambles. He was starting to turn into the former Q, bad habits and all. 

He sighed as he stepped into the kitchen, eyes going to the pile of dishes in the sink. Nope, he thought, shaking his head slightly. Not going to happen. Shambles had worked so far, it could stay that way one more night. He turned pointedly away and opened up the nearest cupboard, hands going through the motions as he made himself a cup of tea. He stared into space, jolting as the kettle began to whistle. Without looking, he reached into the open shelf above for a cup. Finding only empty air, he peered upwards blearily. He wished he had the energy to be annoyed.

As he reached for the least soiled cup in the sink, his head connected with the cabinet with a dull thud. Instead of reaching up to rub the now sore spot, he simply leaned forward, resting his head wearily on the edge of the wooden shelf, pressing it into his forehead, trying to drown out the throbbing at the base of his skull.

He jolted as a set of hands came to rest on his shoulders, thumbs pushing into the knots that had formed over the last few days. He threw his head back, hearing a sickening crunch of a nose breaking. Defense training was turning out not to be such a waste of time after all, he thought ideally, as he turned swiftly.

“Bond.” he finally said, voice strained. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

He reached up a hand up to rub the back of his head. He flinched as his hand found the new ache. Great, he thought, anything else? As he lowered his hand, he hid it behind him, hiding how it shook slightly, before turning abruptly back around and closing the cabinet door. 

Bond pulled out a pressed handkerchief and pressed it delicately under his nose. He stared at Q, face expressionless.

Uncomfortable, Q made his way over to the sink, plugging it and turning on the tap to fill it with water. Giving his hands something to do, and his mind something else to focus on seemed to be the best thing to do. Not to mention, that now he really could use that cup of tea. He turned to get a good look at the agent.

“Serves you right.” He idly remarked as Bond folded the handkerchief with a flick of the wrist, and tucked it away. He turned back to the sink, watching soap bubbles form in the warm water with a sense of detachment. 

He faintly heard the whisper of cloth against cloth, before Bond appeared, towel in hand, waiting silently. This could be a sign of the apocalypse, Q thought distantly, he really should call it in. His hands automatically began to scrub, and without thought he passed the dish to Bond, only mildly surprised when the agent began to dry without a word. He snorted slightly, the idea of a Double-O drying his dishes too surreal to ignore. He missed the flash of concern that crossed the agent's face as he turned to stack the plate in the rack. 

Once the sink was emptied out and dried, Q was jolted slightly out of his stupor by the cup of tea being held under his nose by broad hands. He took the cup, fingers curling into the warmth, mumbling a quiet, “Thank you.” 

He felt numb. The last few days, and well...Bond had finally sapped whatever reserves he had had left. He was numb enough to only vaguely notice the gentle hand guiding him towards the living room. As he was eased onto the couch, Q protested faintly, only to stare as two pills were insistently held beneath his nose, nestled in the palm of a gun-calloused hand. 

“Please tell me you brought the gun back at least?” Q mumbled, swallowing the pills and washing them down with the last sip of tea. 

The cup was deftly taken away. Q’s mind began to turn to fog, swirling and turning, just as the room seemed to be. He couldn't help but wonder if the tea had been drugged, but found that he couldn't work up the energy to care either way. He kicked off his shoes with a sigh as he stretched out across the cushions, muscles screaming in relief at the reprieve. He stared blearily up at Bond, the agent’s face hidden in shadows. 

"Bond?"

He watched, drained, as the agent merely turned and walked back into the kitchen without a word to presumably add the first piece to the sink, the start of the next wonderful dish pile. 

“Try to avoid the urge to blow something up in there, 007. You've more than reached your quota, I would say. And I’m not cleaning up any more of your messes tonight.” he called hoarsely, as he reached for the blanket draped over the coach. He pulled it down across his lap, spreading it out and snuggling underneath it. The agent had found his way in on his own, he could surely see himself out. He shivered slightly. He must have forgotten to turn the furnace on again, he thought fuzzily as the pills began to kick in. 

His eyes closed slowly, as he began to drift, slowly falling into sleep. He roused slightly as his glasses were gently slipped from his face. 

“This doesn’t get you out of anything, Bond. You still owe me a bloody car.”, he grumbled quietly. 

“Yes, Q.” Bond said softy, reaching down to deftly draw the blanket up over the slim form. He frowned slightly as he noticed the light shivers. 

===============================================POV========================================================== 

Bond stared down at the young genius as he finally seemed to drift off into sleep. Damned if he knew why he was here, he thought, frowning slightly. After a barely detectable sigh, he stood up from his temporary perch on the coffee table, knees popping. Good thing Q was already out, he wouldn't have let that bit go without a decent dig at the older agent. Bond was almost disappointed at missing it.

Lost in thought, Bond quietly made his way down the hall and over to the thermostat at the door, turning the furnace on with a flick of a finger. If Q had been awake, Bond wouldn't have let this go either. A genius who couldn't even remember to turn the heat on in the cold, he scoffed, wasn't much of a genius after all. He smirked faintly as he made his way back to the living room, elegantly sliding into the arm chair facing the door and conveniently placed for someone who might want to keep watch on the sleeping figure. 

He tented his fingers, resting them against his chin as he settled in to wait. He owed Q after all, and not just a ‘bloody car’. But he was certainly going to appreciate the effort Q was going to make to get what was owed him. As he glanced around the dimly lit room, he spotted a partially hidden brochure under a mountain of scientific and technological journals, as well as a well-read letter. 

He leaned forward lightly and snagged both off the table, before reclining back in his seat. Angling the items toward the light, he quickly skimmed their contents. He felt only a slight pang at invading the Quartermaster’s privacy, but well…spy.

As the contents of the items became clear, his eyes turned to the slumbering form, quietly assessing the man with now dark eyes.

“The car would have been easier.” he finally remarked, quietly, slipping the two bits of paper into his inner pocket. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who took the time to comment. I appreciated your kind words. As always, your comments are welcome and appreciated.


	7. The Unexpected Guest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been so long since I've worked on this story that I am almost afraid to post a new chapter. But here it is...I hope you all enjoy the new addition. I promise the next chapter won't be as long a wait as the last.

Q woke with a hacking cough pulling him from sleep. He sat up with difficulty, hacking all the while. He hauled himself up with a groan, one hand on the back of the couch as he pushed against his chest with the other. He groaned again as the coughing finally eased enough for him to take his first deep breath. He turned, sliding his feet to the floor and dragging the blanket off of his overheated body with one hand. Leaning forward, he rested his aching head in two trembling hands. He breathed loudly through his nose, trying to remember how he got home last night. 

At the memory of Bond leaning over him as he slept, like some guardian slash creeper stalker, came blearily came into focus, his head shot up abruptly, bringing a burst of pain forward from behind his eyes. He moaned, more at the memory than the pain, though if asked he would deny it. 

Rubbing his hands over his face, he began to message the bridge of his nose and rubbing his eyes until the pain dulled to a distant throb through what he was sure was sheer will power alone. He gingerly looked up, scanning the apartment for the wayward agent. Seeing nothing out of place, and no hint of his annoyingly muscled form, Q sighed in relief. 

He pulled himself slowly out of the old cushions to stand gingerly next to the couch, touching the back wall to keep his balance as he wavered. Food was a priority. That and rest in a real bed, not that monstrosity of a cot he had in his office. He twisted, his back cracking in several places with an audible pop. He began to make his way slowly to the kitchen, pausing to swipe his mobile off the coffee table in front of the couch, one hand reaching behind to rub at his lower back. 

Checking his messages as he reached out and flipped on the electric kettle, he stilled as an image of him sleeping snapped onto the screen, obviously taken the night before. He snorted, swiping the image away, before entering his biometrics to release the electronic lock so he could access the deeper level of programing that housed his MI6 data and transmission feeds. Sighing as he saw the notice for a meeting with M R had put on his calendar, he snagged a cup from the drying rack and began his day. ============================================================================================================ 

Stepping out of the shower, Q tensed as the smell of bacon wafted down the hallway and into the steamed bath. He deftly removed the lid from the back of the toilet seat. Reaching in, he smoothly lifted out his own personal Walther PPK before quietly entering the hallway and making his way toward the kitchen. Clearing the living room, he placed his back to the wall before smoothly rounding the corner into the kitchen, face grim and gun up ready to fire. 

"Bond." He choked out, "What are you doing in my kitchen?!" Bond turned away from the cutting board, knife in hand. He glanced at the gun before beginning to grin. Bond arched an eyebrow, face creased in amusement. As Bond opened his mouth to speak, Q quickly came to the realization that he was standing in front of the older man dripping wet...and naked, except for an exceptionally built firearm. Flushing, he took a step backwards and rolled back around the corner and into the living room, using the wall to prop himself up on suddenly weak knees. Leaning back, he threw his head back lightly against the wall,face red with mortification. He brought the gun up and tapped the barrel lightly against the side of his forehead in frustration. 

"Great," he muttered, "Just great." He dropped the arm holding the gun, letting it hang lose at his side, as he gazed skyward with a world-weary expression. 

"Morning, Q." Bond called out, frustratingly cheerful. "You're dripping." 

"Yes." Q replied, looking down at the puddle at his feet and the trail he had left as he walked before wryly commenting, "How observant." He reached behind him with his free hand, using it to push himself off and away from the wall, wobbling slightly before finding his balance. 

"Spy!" Bond hollered in response as Q made his way gingerly back through the living room. 

"Make me some bloody eggs!" Q hollered back, as he walked down the hallway, carefully making his way around the small puddles he had created on the hard wood floor. He slammed the door to his bedroom shut before the other man had time to reply. He cringed as the sound seemed to reverberate inside his aching skull. 

Q roughly pulled the spare robe off of the back of his closet door and rubbed it along his arms and legs as he walked over to the wardrobe. Throwing it open, he finished drying his torso and began to wring the remaining water from his hair. He groaned as he thought about the picture he must have made in front of Bond. He must have looked like a drowned rat. He quickly slipped into a pair of pants and trousers before pulling on a ratty jumper. 

He jumped as an open palm pounded against his bedroom door. 

"Eggs are getting cold!" Bond called through the closed oak door. 

Q walked over to the door on socked, silent feet and jerked the door open. He eyed Bond warily. A helpful Bond, not to mention a sober one, was often more trouble than he was worth. And Bond had chosen himself as his companion for the day if present events were any indication. Q wanted badly to just shut the door on that smug face and crawl back into bed. 

Bond raised an eyebrow at Q's abrupt presence, "You can do your hair later." He joked. 

"Ha ha." Q laughed sardonically, brushing past the older agent and down the hallway, surprised at it's dry state, but smart enough to know that a comment on the older agent's domesticity would be wholly unappreciated. 

As Q reached the kitchen, he couldn't hide the look of surprise that crossed his face as he took in the feast before him. He came to an abrupt halt in the doorway, Bond chuckling behind him. Bond had apparently been shopping. That was the only explanation, because he was pretty sure his kitchen had had all of one box of tea and a tin of biscuits in it last night. Possibly a can of soup. However, his small table was covered in plates piled high with pancakes, eggs, sausage, bacon, and what looked to be a very colorful concoction of different fruits in some type of syrup. All in all...deliciously suspicious. 

"Well," Bond said, practically in his ear. He stood close enough behind him that he could feel Bond's breathe against his neck as he spoke. "Eat." 

Q turned his head to look eyes with the agent, raising an eyebrow at the apparent order from the other man. "Why?" 

"Why?" Bond echoed in mock confusion, tilting his head for effect, "It's a basic necessity, eating, one should do it at least three times a day." Bond glanced up and down Q's too thin body. "For you...more so." He amended casually. 

"No." Q replied, staring intently at the older agent, "Why?" 

As Bond opened his mouth for what looked like another flippant remark, Q continued, cutting the older agent off with a glance, "What did you do?" 

"Do?" Bond huffed, before pushing him forward with a hand placed firmly on his lower back. "Why Q, I'm shocked you would even think such a thing. Can't I simply show my appreciation for my Quartermaster through a good meal?" Bond asked airily. 

"No." Q curtly, taking a seat at the table. He stared at the assortment of dishes. "Is it poisoned?" He finally asked, staring at the pile of pancakes to his left, as Bond came to stand beside him. 

"No." Bond responded, "It is not poisoned," He stated exasperatedly, "Why the hell would you think that?" He folded his arms in mock affront. 

Q looked up, unamused. "Spy." He stated pointedly, echoing the man's earlier retort. 

"Why, Q, I'm shocked. I thought we had built up more trust between us then that." Bond replied, slipping smoothly into the adjacent seat, picking up the linen napkin next to his plate and smoothing it across his lap before beginning to make up his own plate. 

Q watched Bond intently as Bond took a few bites of everything with a put upon expression before beginning to make a plate for himself. 

As Q took the first bite of fluffy, perfectly made pancakes, it was all he could do not to moan in enjoyment. Bond could certainly cook, and he knew it, from the smug look on his face as he watched Q clear his plate and reach for seconds. 

It all felt rather surreal, eating a breakfast Bond of all people had prepared, in his flat of all places. Enough to throw even Q off his game apparently, because as Bond placed a tea cup at his elbow and resumed his seat, he thought nothing of drinking the tea inside. Which was why, as he finished his eggs and sipped the last of it, he was unprepared for the wave of fatigue that flooded through him with the force of a hurricane. He barely heard Bond as he pushed away from the table and came to stand next to him.

As the tea cup slipped from his fingers, it was caught neatly by Bond before it was placed gently on the table. Q looked up at Bond, head lolling, as Bond pushed away his plate and leaned his body forward until his head was resting safely, albeit uncomfortably on the table. Q glared up at Bond accusingly, before swiftly falling unconscious.

Bond chuckled fondly at the limp form, "I did warn you, Q..." Bond said, reaching down and running a gentle hand over damp, silky hair. "spy."


End file.
